That you exist, that you know, that you care - this is joy enough for me.

Dawn mingles with your ruddy cheeks.

Peasant woman, I read the language of toil in the wrinkles on your brow.

Why should I love you? I ask of myself. This is the constant soliloquy of the monsoon rain in empty valleys.

What do you brood over on sultry noons?

But then, why shouldn't I?

Winter's witheration is everybody's lot.  

I want to know the hive called death that shelters tiny loves compartmentalized.

The sweat on your brow is sprinkled on autumn skies, waiting to sob out their agony.